Worth Waiting
by citigirl13
Summary: A new girl has come to court - an old flame of Francis'. Bash seeks Mary out and she finds out a few surprising things about him. Only a one-shot. Bash/Mary.


**I am really enjoying **_**Reign**_**. Okay, it has a lot of historical inaccuracies (I have a degree in History and my dissertation was in this period) but as long as you don't expect it to be accurate it's pretty good. I love Bash/Mary. I am hoping that we seen some good scenes with them in the next episode. It looks like a good episode for Bash/Mary shippers.**

**I'm not particularly thrilled with how this story turned out, and if I had more time to work on it I would. But my laptop is going in to be repaired soon so I would rather post it now. It's just a small one-shot, but I had to get SOMETHING out about them.**

**Anyway, I hope you enjoy it!**

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**DISCLAIMER:**** I do not own **_**Reign **_**or any of the characters**

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**Worth Waiting **

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Love is a beautiful thing, especially when you see that person completely head over heels. Their eyes light up; their face changes into something that you don't usually see, a rare expression; they can't sit still. It's such a sweet thing to see. Older people watch the younger ones and hide smiles, knowing the feeling that they have. They also know that at court love is fleeting, that it's unlikely to last. But they don't bother to warn them of their naivety. It's such a pure thing to see, people can't bear to break it.

It's a wonderful thing to see. It's something you can't take your eyes off. It's beautiful.

It's just sad when that look is graced and your fiancé's face and it's not you he's staring at.

Mary watches Francis flee to the girl. She wraps her arms round him, bringing him close to her. They are locked in an embrace, and then he tenderly holds her face in his hands. She gets a pain in her chest and though she was looking forward to lunch, now she feels sick.

But she is not the first queen to be forgotten because of a pretty face. She remains tall and keeps her head up, because when you look down it's too easy for your crown to fall off. She finds someone to talk to, Kenna or Lola, she doesn't care. She doesn't remember the conversation, because all she can think about is that Francis is still talking to that girl, still holding onto her, and he's not looking for her.

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He finds her by the lake. She's throwing stones into the water, her face screwed up in an expression that isn't very queenly. She's lucky that she's kept out of view by the trees; people would surely be gossip about her, knowing the reason for her bad mood.

"You should be inside, Your Grace," Bash says. "It's growing cooler."

Mary doesn't look at him. "It is far better than being inside, with the whole court watching me. At least the frogs and birds and Sterling won't talk about the how tired I look or whether Francis seems happier with her than he is with me." She reaches for her dog and he nestles beside her. Mary looks incredibly comfortable. He can see her as a farmer's wife, working for a man that she loves; she would probably be happier.

He sits beside her. "I would not fret Your Grace."

"No, I suppose you would not." She turns to him and her eyes seem different. She looks older, like a little faith has been beaten out of her. "Her name is Marie."

He winces. Sometimes fate can be cruel.

"Your Grace, they have known each other for years. Yes they have been...together," he says, stumbling over the word, "but you and Francis are engaged. She cannot stand in the way of that."

Mary's head snaps over to face him. "But she can stand in the way or love, yes?" She shakes her head, getting more worked up. "I am a fool. I actually believed that perhaps I would be fortunate enough to have a husband that I would actually...like. That I may even love him. But I have been proven wrong."

Bash doesn't quite know what to say to that. "Your Grace," he begins awkwardly.

"I know that I should not care that he has slept with her," she continues. "He is a prince; he is going to be a king. Kings have mistresses. I should know this."

"Your Grace-"

She turns on him. "Of course you are defending him. You understand him perfectly, you probably encouraged him. How many girls have you slept with? What does it matter to you if Francis sleeps with her instead of me? If he loves her instead of me? Why do you care?"

There is a weighted silence, heavier than iron chains. "Actually," he says, his voice cool, "not that it is Your Grace's business, but I have never slept with a woman before. It may surprise you, but not many women will settle for the bastard brother if they can get their hands on the future King of France."

Mary could not feel more ashamed of herself. Her face softens and she feels her temper instantly drained. "Bash, I am sorry. I should never have said that. Please accept my apology."

"Your Grace, you are upset. You lost your temper. I understand."

She reaches out and touches his hand. Hours later the place where she touched him still tingles. "Please, call me Mary."

He smiles. This is an honour for him; though Mary is an informal queen only her closest friends call her plain Mary. As the bastard son and the favourite of his father he is given many privileges, but respect is not always one of them. "Mary," he says, trying it out. It feels like sweets, like a stolen kiss.

She returns his smile, though he can see the worry in her eyes.

"Francis loves you Mary, he does."

"Does he?" she asks bleakly. "I wish I had your confidence." She looks away, her hand still on his. She then asks him a question, surprising the boy. "Why have you not slept with anyone? I cannot believe girls have not thrown themselves upon you. You may be the bastard son, but you are still the son of a king."

He smiles, keeping eye contact with her. "I will not deny that girls have sought me out. But they are not the girls that I want."

She narrows her eyes at him in confusion and a little suspicion. As far as she knows (and she knows a great deal more about life than most women) men will take women to bed even if they are ill, even if the women in question are of lower birth than they are or have little wealth. Bash's words seem too bizarre to believe. "And pray tell what girl are you waiting for?"

Bash shakes his head a little. "I am waiting for someone who is worth it. I am not a king or a prince, and I am only a bastard, but I still think that I deserve a bit more than any woman."

"So what woman is worth it?"

"The only woman who is worth it is a woman that I love. My mother and father have been in love for years. I have seen Queen Catherine suffer from neglect and argue with my father for years. I cannot think they are happy in each other's company. My mother is free to do as she pleases, and my father always goes back to her. Even if I am never married, as long as I am loved like my father and mother love each other, I will be happy."

She watches him as he speaks. She cannot fail the logic in this, and she smiles sadly. "I wish I had choice," she answers simply.

He cannot comfort her with that. He knows as well as anyone that a queen does not choose.

"Well Bash, I hope that you find a girl worthy of your love."

His eyes meet hers. "Perhaps I already have."

She maintains eye contact for a mere moment, but that moment is filled with meaning. But as a queen has to, she looks away.

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It is under a year before he finally sleeps with her.

The night after the wedding there is a knock on the door to his chambers. He opens the door and finds Mary standing before him, cloaked to hide herself from the prying eyes of court.

"Mary?"

"Francis is spending the second night of our marriage with Marie," she answers simply. She steps in his chambers and he closes the door, securing them inside. She tosses the cloak off to reveals her bed clothes. He has seen few women in this clothing, and his heart begins to speed up. "I am not going to spend my days waiting for my husband to decide that he will pay attention to me."

Even though every instinct is telling him to take her in his arms, he hesitates. "Mary, you know my brother loves you."

Her face crumbles. This terrifies him. Mary is a queen, as good as Catherine de Medici herself; she would never show weakness or fear. "I know he loves me Bash. But he is a royal. He will always have women that will throw themselves at him and he has proven that he cannot seem to refuse them. I have watched and hoped that he will ignore them, and occasionally he surprised me. But I will not wait around for him. I am Mary, Queen of Scotland." She stepped forward and placed her hand on his chest, another hand on the back of his neck. "If I am going to play second to another woman, Francis is going to play second to you."

Bash feels a little guilt crawling into his conscience. He loves his little brother. His brother has received every entitlement that Bash wanted, but he has never once gloated about it. He has treated him like an equal. But this is Mary, the girl that he has yearned for since she arrived with her long black hair and confident gaze, with her proud walk and her surprising smile. He is not sure he can refuse.

She is staring at him. "Bash, I know you want this. We have shared looks and conversations with hidden meanings since I arrived. We have waited long enough for this."

He is a weak man. But he is not a prince or a king; he is only a bastard.

He runs his hand over her naked body. He carefully maps it out, measuring her scars and freckles. He studies her skin, realising her pale skin tans in the French sun. He learns the sound of her moans, how high her laugh reaches, how she looks when she sleeps. He plays with her hair, memorising how silky it feels and how long it is. He begins to feel different, a warm feeling spreading all over his body like the tingling he first got when she touched him. He realises that this is happiness.

As the sun rises he watches her stir. She will have to go soon, hurry back to her room and pretend like last night never happened. He wants to keep staring at her, because he knows he won't be able to continue for much longer. She does not bother to hide her body with the covers, and good thing to, because if she even tried he would tear them away from her. She turns, opening her eyes. She smiles, and it is as fresh as the first spring morning. "So this is it," she whispers.

He leans over, pressing a kiss on her lips. "What are you talking about?"

She lowers her eyelids, looking utterly comfortable. "So this is love."

The words catch him off-guard. "Francis-"

"Loves me. You keep reminding me. I know he loves me, but the problem with Francis is that he loves others too." She curves her hand round his chin, eyes gazing at him. "But you only love me. That's why I am here now."

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**Hours to make. Seconds to comment. **

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